


Failure To Notice

by OneBlueUmbrella (bigblueboxat221b)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry Greg Lestrade, Asexuality Spectrum, Developing Relationship, Helpful Mycroft Holmes, M/M, Sherlock Being Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:33:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25799761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/OneBlueUmbrella
Summary: Greg trusts Sherlock, but when mistakes get made, he takes it out on Mycroft. The response he receives is not what he expected...
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 34
Kudos: 192





	1. Chapter 1

“No! Don’t come down here with your, ‘I’ll take care of it,’ and your, ‘It’s not an issue, Gregory!’”

Through his anger, Greg could see Mycroft blinking in surprise. The scene behind was still active, though not to him; it was weird not to have his badge in his pocket. His work coat felt strangely lighter on that side now.

_Focus Greg. Hardly the point, now is it?_

Stepping closer, Greg fought to keep his voice low, though the anger still writhed though it like a living thing. “This is because of you, Mycroft.” Carefully, the emotion making his hand shake, he pressed one finger into Mycroft’s chest. It wasn’t hard, but the pressure was enough to make Mycroft brace to avoid being pushed backwards. _Good_. “I have been stood down for a week. That’s leave without pay. And somehow I don’t think they’re gonna look too favourably on this when I put in my application for McManus’ DCI position next month. Do you even know how often those positions come up? He’s the first DCI to retire in five years, and the rest are at least that far off.”

Frustration and anger roared through him, and Greg fought to contain them, the edges curling with bitterness before he could stop them.

“Don’t call me, Mycroft. Don’t expect me to help out your brother again.” He waved one hand behind him, not even looking at the dozens of officers and emergency personnel working to secure the building and the people within. “This is what happens.” He took a step back, holding his arms out, knowing he looked exhausted, hoping his disappointment and anger were clear enough.

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, but Greg turned away, walking along the line of the police tape, feeling the eyes of the constables standing on the other side. They all knew who he was now, even if they hadn’t when they’d arrived. Gossip being what it was, plus the very public dressing down by the Commissioner, meant there was hardly an officer on the scene who wouldn’t know the story.

It was three kilometers home.

Mycroft’s car tailed him the whole way, but Greg didn’t care.

The first kilometer he walked fast, burning off energy and anger in equal measures until he was empty of both.

The second kilometer was slower, the hot burn of anger giving way to frustration, fists curling into tight balls as he waited to cross streets still busy with traffic at this late hour. At least nobody here knew who he was.

The third kilometer Greg was practically stumbling with fatigue. His frustration was still there but it had softened, the bitterness tinged with shame and the beginnings of despair. They’d worked for weeks on this case, relying on Sherlock’s homeless network for intelligence about what was going on in that building. Along the dark street before his own, Greg had to admit he’d grown lax. He should have double checked. Hell, he should have made sure Sherlock was double checking. The discomfort on the detective’s face as he admitted he hadn’t even done so much as a walk past in the last week was new, but the growing feeling of dread had stopped Greg from really enjoying it.

_I’ve fucked this up._

It was too late at that point to call it off, and the rest of the evening had gone according to Greg’s worst nightmare. A raid on the wrong building, the Commissioner herself down here to strip him of his badge for a week “at least, Lestrade,” the humiliation of knowing all their work was for naught.

And then, to top it all off, Mycroft Holmes showing up, face impassive as he watched Greg’s life implode around his ears. Greg hadn’t even let him open his mouth; a small voice in the back of his head knew this wasn’t all Mycroft’s fault, and yet he was making it out to be. Just because Mycroft showed up occasionally, or contacted Greg about Sherlock or sometimes they ate a meal together to discuss the best strategy for keeping Sherlock vaguely close to the straight and narrow didn’t mean any of this was Mycroft’s fault.

Greg had no idea if the car was planning on staying outside his place all night; it was still there when he came to close the curtains in his flat, but after that he didn’t pay any attention. Without thinking too much, he stripped off his clothes, took the hottest shower he could stand and collapsed into bed. He’d deal with tomorrow tomorrow.

+++

The Commissioner was nothing if not efficient, Greg had to give her that. He had a text message waiting for him when he finally checked his phone the following afternoon. She wanted to see him regarding his “professional decisions”, which sounded exactly as ominous as he expected. A date and time were given, one week from today; Greg fully expected to be told not to bother applying for the DCI position, assuming he wasn’t demoted or even fired. Technically he’d given Sherlock a hell of a lot of latitude lately, and there was hardly a case he’d worked in the last year Sherlock hadn’t at least glanced at.

The press would have a field day if they got hold of this. Sherlock himself would probably escape fairly easily, but Greg knew they loved nothing more than a cop who didn’t follow the rules. And somehow, that had become him over the last few months. He’d become reckless, relying on Sherlock, which was a bad decision in itself. Not bothering to double check the information until it had all blown up in his face.

When a knock came on his door around 5pm, Greg took a couple of moments to pull on some tracksuit bottoms before answering the door. It would be either someone from work sneaking over, or Sherlock – he wouldn’t mind giving him a bollocking, actually – or something he’d ordered online and forgotten about. Either way, his unshaven state wasn’t something he could fix right now and frankly, he didn’t really care.

It was none of the above. Only Greg’s astonishment at seeing Mycroft dulled his reflexes enough so that by the time he closed the door without saying anything, Mycroft had managed to insert one beautifully shod foot into the space.

“Gregory,” he began, but stopped when Greg raised one hand.

“Don’t,” Greg said. He wanted to say a bunch more stuff, but realised it didn’t matter anymore. “Just go, Mycroft.”

He didn’t shout, or push at Mycroft; he just lowered his eyes, waiting, and eventually the expensive shoe was slowly withdrawn and he could close his door.

A few moments later, his phone beeped. Against all his instincts, Greg read the message.

_I believe we need to speak. What might I bring as a peace offering?_

Greg snorted, then remembered how little his fridge had contained when he’d opened it restlessly that morning. Might as well get something out of this mess.

_Anything a public servant on enforced leave who doesn’t usually eat well but now has the time to cook might need._

He thought, then added two more words.

_And beer._

The answer came sooner than he expected.

_I will return in an hour._

Greg blinked. Shit, was Mycroft serious? Surely not. He scrubbed one hand up his cheek, wondering if he should bother shaving. Not that it mattered, he told himself. Although he really did owe Mycroft an apology. And it might be easier to give if he didn’t feel this pathetic.

The hour melted away between the shave, shower, and quick tidy of his flat. Greg forced himself to get dressed again in the same tracksuit bottoms, though his t-shirt was clean. No point trying to impress the man. Whatever he had to say, he surely didn’t need Greg to be well dressed for it.

This time, he was expecting the knock but he still started at the sudden sound.

“Hi,” he said, but any further words evaporated as two delivery people walked past into the flat, each laden with grocery bags.

“Good evening.” Mycroft’s voice came from outside the flat, and Greg took a second to decide if he should chase the delivery people or address Mycroft. The decision was taken out of his hands when the delivery people reappeared, sans grocery bags, and filed out without speaking to him.

“Hi,” he said finally, when the delivery people had disappeared. “Um, come in.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft murmured.

They stood in the entrance for a moment, Greg awkwardly watching as Mycroft took off scarf, gloves and coat before leaning his umbrella against the hall table.

“I hope the selection will meet your criteria,” Mycroft said when they stopped and Greg could survey the groceries on his tiny dining table. “I was not entirely sure of your preferences.”

Greg flicked a glance up before gingerly opening the first bag. It was full of… “Are these ready meals?”

“Far more nutritionally balanced than those generally available at Tesco,” Mycroft told him. “Suitable to be frozen.”

“Jesus, how many are here?” Greg asked, taking out the first half dozen and peering into the bag.

“Twenty meals,” Mycroft replied. “I made a selection, but you are of course free to contact the company to alter your order before next month’s delivery.”

“Next month’s delivery?” Greg repeated.

“A standing order,” Mycroft said, not meeting his eyes. “A small gesture, given your efforts.”

The silence stretched out between them and Greg suddenly felt like a right berk.

“Jesus,” Greg said, slumping into a chair. “I’m sorry, Mycroft. I was a complete arsehole to you last night.” He huffed a laugh. “I have no idea why I took all that out on you.”

“I presume I was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Mycroft replied. “Though I must admit I feel a level of guilt for my brother’s actions.”

“Sherlock is not your responsibility,” Greg told him. “Jesus, I was doing a terrible job keeping an eye on him.” He sighed. “In the end I think we both just got so used to him being right we took it for granted.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft said. He hesitated. “My brother has been remanded in custody.”

“Police custody?” Greg asked, eyebrows raised. “On what charges?”

“Family custody,” Mycroft said dryly. “My uncle owns a significant amount of land in Scotland. Given the poor track record of formal rehabilitation facilities, I thought perhaps a different approach.”

“And you think he’ll just…stay?” Greg asked carefully. “I can’t see him just hanging out on a farm in Scotland, Mycroft.”

“In the Outer Hebrides, he will have little choice,” Mycroft replied. “Only a small airfield offers passage on or off the island.”

“Jesus,” Greg said for what felt like the hundredth time that evening. “Well, okay then.”

“In terms of your professional difficulties,” Mycroft began, but Greg held up his hand and the words faltered to a stop.

“No,” Greg said, “I made my bed, Mycroft. Made my own bad decisions, and I’ve got to take responsibility for them.” He sighed. “I just hope I still have a job next week.”

“You really won’t take my help in this matter?” Mycroft said.

“I won’t,” Greg said, “though if I’m unemployed after my meeting with the Commissioner, I might get you to put in a good word for me with the National Museum. They’re always looking for guards, right?”

Mycroft’s eyebrow rose at the suggestion. “Surely not, Gregory.”

“Yeah, well, we’ll see,” Greg said. “I can kiss the promotion goodbye, that much is for sure.”

Mycroft looked like he was going to say something about Greg’s last comment, but instead he pointed at the groceries. “It might be an idea to put these away. Some require refrigeration.”

“Yeah,” Greg said. “I was going to get a curry in, if you’re hungry.”

“Certainly,” Mycroft replied. He hesitated. “If you’re sure, of course.”

Greg turned, a block of parmesan cheese in his hand. “Yeah,” he said. “Take a seat, make yourself comfortable.” It was easier to talk as he was emptying the bags, concentrating on the contents of the bags, which was frankly a lot more expensive and varied than he ever actually bought for himself.

“That is kohlrabi,” Mycroft said, when Greg looked confused, holding an alien looking white and green vegetable up. “Roasted with parmesan and olive oil, it is delicious.”

“Okay, then,” Greg replied. “Thanks.” He glanced back. Mycroft looked guarded as he sat on the edge of the dining chair. “You cook much?”

Mycroft hesitated before admitting, “Not as much as I would like, no.”

“Me either,” Greg said. “Though this week,” he indicated the fridge now full of produce, “I guess I’ll be doing some new things.”

“I was unsure of your tone earlier,” Mycroft said. “I wished to speak with you and so chose to assume you were serious.”

“Half and half,” Greg said. He found a six pack of beer at the bottom of one of the bags and offered one to Mycroft.

“No, thank you,” Mycroft said. “Though do go ahead if you wish.”

“Nah,” Greg said. He stashed the beer in the fridge, shifting some things around to make it fit. “So what did you want to talk about?”

“Nothing specific,” Mycroft said. “I was unwilling to leave things as they had been last night.”

Greg nodded. He packed away the grocery bags as he thought about it. “You could have done that over the phone,” he pointed out.

“I was not sure you would have answered,” he said.

“Fair enough,” Greg agreed. He sat opposite Mycroft. “It went to shit pretty quickly.”

Mycroft looked at him. “My team have analysed last night’s events,” he said carefully. “They continued for quite a while after you left. Would you be interested in hearing their findings?”

Greg considered that for a bit. He rubbed his hand along his leg, suddenly very conscious of how casually he was dressed, while Mycroft wore his usual three piece suit.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “I would.”

Mycroft cleared his throat then paused for a second before speaking. “To offer you the summary, while the intention of the offensive was to detain the main players in the counterfeiting scheme and secure their premises, this goal was not met. However,” he continued, ignoring the rude noise Greg made at the recounting of his failure, “a much more substantial operation has been uncovered.”

“What?” Greg said. The last thing he’d been privy to was the discovery that none of the forgery equipment was present. “But we watched them go in. Tonight was the night of their big meeting.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft said, “and as your intelligence told you-,”

“-as Sherlock told me,” Greg said.

“Just so,” Mycroft said patiently, “this meeting was about expanding their operations into other parts of Western Europe.”

“And we’d seen the shipments come and go, we knew they were setting up Lithuanian and Polish operations,” Greg said, growing frustrated as he remembered the hours and hours of work.

“True, however there was one element my brother failed to notice,” Mycroft said. He leaned forward, grey eyes locked on Greg’s. “It was not false currency they were planning on exporting, nor was it the currency they had been storing in the building purchased two years earlier.”

“What?” Greg said.

“The counterfeiting was really happening,” Mycroft said, obviously simplifying his explanation for Greg, “but that was not what the meeting tonight was about. No, they were happy to keep that operation strictly domestic. This meeting was about expanding their human trafficking operation.”

“Human trafficking?” Greg whispered.

Mycroft nodded. “A number of individuals were discovered,” Mycroft replied. “None had passports, few spoke any English. All were being detained against their will, having paid a significant sum to come to England, believing they would be given legitimate work visas on arrival.”

Greg swallowed. “So…now what?”

“Eloranta will take over the investigation, the foreign individuals are receiving medical attention. Several are giving statements about their treatment and the people involved. My team has made some suggestions about how Scotland Yard might handle this matter.”

“Mycroft,” Greg began, but it was his turn to be stopped by a quietly raised hand.

“Not with regard to any single officer,” he said. “Merely with the idea that it would be better to spin this as a deep undercover mission working alongside MI6, rather than a failed attempt to stamp out the spread of false currency,” Mycroft said. “Though of course Scotland Yard now had the intelligence to close down that operation, too.”

“Jesus actual Christ,” Greg breathed. “Hang on, you spoke to the Commissioner?”

“I did,” Mycroft replied calmly. “She admitted her response towards you yesterday was somewhat of a kneejerk reaction, and given the possibility of this error resulting in a far bigger win, politically speaking, I believe your meeting next week may not be as negative an experience as you are anticipating.”

“Kneejerk reaction,” Greg said ruefully. “I can understand that.”

A small smile broke Mycroft’s serious expression. “I hope this news eases your concern about your career,” he said.

“It does,” Greg said. “Thanks, Mycroft.”

“Not at all,” Mycroft said.

“So, your brother’s stuck in the Outer Hebrides, I’m on leave for a week, what are you going to do with your time, Mycroft?” Greg asked, grinning for the first time since yesterday had gone so badly south. “Something new and exciting in the kitchen?”

“I will be working, of course,” Mycroft said. He hesitated. “Though if you required some assistance,” he took a deep breath, “or company while you cooked, I would not be opposed.”

Greg blinked. “You want to come over and cook with me?”

“If you would like,” Mycroft said, his cheeks growing pink under Greg’s gaze. “I am somewhat out of practice, I must warn you.”

“Sounds good to me,” Greg replied. “You can show me that thing with the,” he waved his hand, “kale-berry?”

“Kohlrabi,” Mycroft corrected, meeting Greg’s grin with one of his own. “Certainly.”

“Well tonight it’s Indian from up the street,” Greg said. “Any preferences?”

“Something with a vegetable,” Mycroft replied. “And as hot as you wish.”

“You sure?” Greg asked with a grin. “I’m a Vindaloo man.”

“Are you questioning my ability to eat spicy food?” Mycroft asked with a raised eyebrow and an amused tone. “Because I can assure you, I am able to do so without any discomfort.”

“You’re on,” Greg grinned, reaching for the phone.


	2. Chapter 2

“So, you reckon the Commissioner will be okay in our meeting?” Greg asked.

“I believe so,” Mycroft replied, taking a small amount of rice. He sat back, mixing the rice with his Vindaloo. “She was quite reasonable when I spoke with her.”

“Lucky you,” Greg said dryly. He bit into a samosa, chewing carefully as the steam threatened to burn the roof of his mouth. He sighed and swallowed. “Still think I might have blown my chances at the promotion, though.”

“That may be so,” Mycroft conceded. “Given the possibility this would render you unemployed, surely the outcome is still satisfactory?”

“I guess so,” Greg replied. He watched Mycroft’s eyebrow rise in silent question and wondered if he should maintain the status quo – two professionals talking over a meal – or shift the conversation into more personal territory. It would be taking a risk, given their careful dance around anything too personal, but considering the beer he was currently drinking had been provided by Mycroft, perhaps it wasn’t too great a risk.

“I just always figured I’d be heading there, you know?” he said, keeping his eyes on his meal. “After so many years in the force…not that I was aiming for it, as such, but…” he sighed again, pushing back against the melancholy threatening.

“You saw it as a realistic achievement should you decide to spend your working life at Scotland Yard,” Mycroft offered.

“Yeah,” Greg said. A memory rose, something he’d forgotten and his mouth opened, smiling as he remembered. “My first week on the job I caught a double murderer, did you know that? It was dumb luck – a shopkeeper thought he was pinching something, I was the beat cop he ran right into on his way out. Shoved me into a wall when he saw the uniform, but I chased him down, cuffed him while we sorted it out. Would have let him go but he had this tattoo that looked familiar.” Greg shook his head. “A DCI was there when I brought him in and we made the connection. ‘Nice work, son,’ that’s what he said. ‘I’ll have to keep an eye on my job if you keep this up.’”

Greg shook his head again. “He probably didn’t even remember it, but I sure did.”

Mycroft listened as he always did, as though Greg’s words were important, this stupid ramble he couldn’t stop pouring out. Greg stopped himself saying any more – surely that was enough – and instead filled his mouth with curry, concentrating on the burn of the chili instead.

“Where had you seen the tattoo?” Mycroft asked.

It wasn’t the question Greg had anticipated, and he blinked for a second, remembering. “I was so keen to be a good cop,” he said. “I read every bulletin, every alert that came out. Dozens of them, but I wanted to be ready in case something happened.”

“And so it did,” Mycroft replied. “Your proactivity was what prepared you for that event when it happened.”

“Yeah,” Greg said.

Mycroft was silent for a moment and Greg wondered if he was waiting for more of the story.

“If I might ask,” Mycroft said, and Greg’s heart thumped a little harder, “how would you view your career should you retire with your current rank?”

Greg stared at him. It was a bloody personal question, there was no doubt of it, something he would laugh off or ignore in another setting, or with someone else. Instead he swallowed and reached for his beer. “Not sure I’d be happy about it,” he said before drinking, the understatement pushed down by the beer.

“Not happy about it,” Mycroft repeated, the scepticism heavy in his tone. “By any other measure, you have had a successful career. You would retire with a reasonable pension.”

Greg shrugged. He didn’t know why he wanted to continue with this conversation, but he did. “It’s not where I thought I’d be,” he said. “Not after…not after how hard I’ve worked.”

“How much you’ve sacrificed?” Mycroft said quietly.

“Maybe,” Greg replied, not quite ready to admit it.

Neither mentioned his wife, but her presence blew through the room anyway, cold fingers reaching out to tug Greg’s mood lower as she passed. Greg scratched at his beer bottle. He didn’t know why he thought of it suddenly, but he blurted, “Don’t do anything, will you.”

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft replied.

“Don’t…geez…don’t talk to MacMillan. Influence her or whatever,” Greg said. It was awkward as hell, and Mycroft had made zero suggestion he might, but it was exactly the kind of thing he would do and not understand why Greg would be pissed about it.

“Ah,” Mycroft said in understanding. He placed his empty plate on the coffee table. “Rest assured I will do no such thing.”

Greg winced. “Sorry,” he muttered.

“I understand,” Mycroft replied. “You would prefer to earn a promotion on your own merit.”

“Kind of,” Greg replied.

“’Kind of’?” Mycroft repeated.

“Look, when I started with Sherlock, it was complicated,” Greg replied. “And it’s just got more complicated. I wanted to help him, but I wanted to…I dunno, work out how he did it. How he saw so bloody much in a scene the rest of us missed. But by the time I realised my numbers looked so good because of him, I couldn’t tell him to shove off.” Greg ran one hand through his hair. It was certainly confession time tonight, wasn’t it?

“I couldn’t cut him off, he wouldn’t have coped. But I knew if anyone came looking, it would be my arse on the line,” Greg replied.

“That is why you’ve given him so much leeway,” Mycroft murmured. He was thinking. His voice changed, the musing tone so similar to his brother Greg couldn’t believe other people didn’t see the resemblance.

“If I gave him one thing, one big thing to concentrate on, it meant the other cases were…he wasn’t involved,” Greg said, feeling more and more like a heel as he spoke. “Christ, that’s not what I meant. I meant…”

“I understand,” Mycroft replied. “You were trying to do the best for both of you. Your consideration of my brother is admirable. Other detectives would have cut him loose without another thought.”

“Other detectives wouldn’t have let him get so far in,” Greg replied.

“You say that as though it would have been a preferable outcome,” Mycroft said. “Make no mistake, Gregory, you saved his life when you listened to him.”

Greg scoffed. “Not sure it was that profound,” he said.

He expected Mycroft to insist, but instead he was quiet. To Greg’s astonishment, he collected their plates and stepped into the kitchen. Something about his manner told Greg he needed a minute to himself, so he didn’t follow. There were noises from the kitchen, but he waited, unsure what was going on but knowing Mycroft needed the distance. When Mycroft returned with two mugs, passing one to Greg, he accepted. The peppermint scent was strong; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d bothered to make himself tea.

“I’m not sure how exaggerated you believe my stories of my brother are,” Mycroft started, “however let me assure you Sherlock was perilously close to losing his life before he met you.”

Greg didn’t speak. The tea was too hot to drink, but he breathed in the scent, sharp and familiar.

“Not only did you listen to his deductions, an act few have ever bothered to do,” Mycroft said, “you saw through his brash exterior and called him on it.”

The phrase was so unlike Mycroft Greg almost smiled.

“I wasn’t all that nice, I reckon,” Greg replied. “But we came to an understanding.” Another sigh, this one blowing the steam momentarily from above his tea. “And then the bugger grew on me.” He looked up, knowing his eyes betrayed his sadness at how it had come to this. “Of course if you tell him that I’ll have to kill you.”

“Naturally,” Mycroft replied calmly. “I trust you’ll keep my affection for him to yourself as well.”

“Do you think he’ll do alright with your uncle?” Greg asked.

“The island is small,” Mycroft admitted, “but it is not without its distractions.” He smiled, a mirthless, wry action that somehow tugged at Greg’s heart for its honesty. “If nothing else, he might occupy himself building a vessel from scratch.”

Greg snorted. “Wouldn’t put it past him,” he agreed.

They fell into a contemplative silence until Mycroft shifted. Greg glanced into his mug, surprised to find it empty. “I should go,” Mycroft said. “I have an early meeting.”

“Yeah,” Greg replied. He stood up, taking Mycroft’s mug. “Look, thanks for all this,” he said, walking into the kitchen as he spoke so it wouldn’t be so obvious that he was avoiding Mycroft’s eyes. “Not how I thought my day was going to turn out.”

“Nor mine,” Mycroft replied. He hesitated, but said in a rush, “I find myself at rather a loose end myself this week, tomorrow’s meeting notwithstanding. Should you wish for company…”

“Really?” Greg replied. He watched as Mycroft shifted uncomfortably, and an answer came to him. “Someone’s made you take time off, haven’t they?” He tilted his head, fascinated at being able to read a Holmes. It really was quite novel. “I’m guessing…Anthea. She’s arranged the practical stuff for Sherlock, and she can’t make you get on the plane. I’ll bet there’s a charter flight with your name on it to go visit him.”

Mycroft looked at his, resignation in the set of his shoulders and defeated expression. “Correct,” he replied. “She also confiscated my phone and suspended my security clearances.”

Greg grinned. “I bet she’ll regret that when you get back.”

“I do not intend to board that plane,” Mycroft responded.

“Of course you don’t,” Greg replied. He waited a beat until it was clear Mycroft did not intend to add anything. “So what do you intend to do?”

Greg expected a smooth answer. Surely Mycroft would have every hour accounted for. ‘Loose end’ for Mycroft home probably meant ‘nothing involving nuclear arms’. To his astonishment, Mycroft cleared his throat, turned his eyes away, shifted his weight – classic signs of someone unsure of his answer. Greg frowned. He knew Mycroft was a better liar than this – surely he could hide any discomfort.

_Did he choose not to hide this?_

Greg was still processing what this might mean when Mycroft spoke.

“I have no plans.”

“I kind of figured that,” Greg replied without thinking.

Mycroft immediately flushed, eyes widening and filling with mortification. “My apologies,” he started.

Greg didn’t think; he reached over, his hand landing on Mycroft’s arm. Words came to him like they sometimes did at work. Intuition, experience or training, Greg knew to trust this instinct.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “We’ve been talking for ages. About personal stuff. I’m not upset that I could read your expression.” He waited a beat. “Are you?”

“Am I?” Mycroft repeated.

_He’s stalling._

“Are you upset I could read your expression,” Greg repeated calmly.

“I generally don’t allow…” Mycroft’s voice faded out.

“Yeah,” Greg said. “But we generally don’t talk like this.”

“We don’t,” Mycroft replied. “I don’t.”

Greg nodded, understanding.

_I don’t._

_With anyone._

It was strange all of a sudden, having that extra insight into Mycroft’s mind. Greg watched, fascinated as he fought to realign the façade. As he did, Greg realised it was not only that Mycroft let him in, but he was somehow permitted to look, really look. Before tonight the calm expression had been accompanied by a subtle aura, dissuading him from examining Mycroft’s face too closely.

_Clever. Defensive._

_But not now._

“You don’t have to do that, you know,” Greg said.

The panic was a short flash, but Greg saw it flare behind the grey eyes.

Silent hung between them.

“Do what?” Mycroft whispered.

“Hide,” Greg replied.

His response must have meant more than he intended, because Mycroft’s eyes widened and for a second, Greg was sure he would flee. The physical changes were minute but clear (fists clenched, shoulders hunched, lips pressed tight together) and Greg almost stepped out of the way, until he watched the tension dissipate with Mycroft’s carefully controlled exhalation.

“Thank you,” Mycroft said. “Few people are aware of the history between Sherlock and I.”

“No problem,” Greg replied.

“Your support of him,” Mycroft started, but Greg stopped him.

“No,” Greg said, wanting this to be clear. “This has nothing to do with Sherlock. Except that he’s your brother. _Your_ brother, and he affects you. So I’m interested in hearing about him because your past – your joint past – helps explain how things are now. For you.”

“Me?” Mycroft whispered.

“Yes,” Greg replied, stepping closer. “I might have met your brother first, Mycroft, but right now, we’re talking about you. About how,” he swallowed, “how I want to help you.”

Mycroft nodded, the frown he wore making it clear this was still a foreign idea to him. “By…understanding my body language?” he asked.

Greg swallowed, carefully choosing to interpret that as it was intended. “Yes,” he said. “If you want me to see it.”

Mycroft nodded. “I am not accustomed to being so open,” he admitted.

“I know,” Greg replied. “But you’re safe here.”

“Gregory,” Mycroft said, and the way he said it made Greg’s heart skip a beat, “please allow me to be clear.” He cleared his throat, taking a deep breath before blurting, “I don’t understand what you want. From this. Us. Me.” Mycroft winced at the poorly constructed sentences. “I don’t…sex is not something I find an appealing notion. I feel it would be dishonest of me not to make that clear.”

Greg nodded. “Right now?” he said. “I’d like to kiss you. Hug you, if that’s something you’d like.” He paused watching the mortification continue to play over Mycroft’s face. “Hey,” he said quietly, “if you’re prepared to talk to me, tell me what you do and don’t want, I would very much like to hear.”

Mycroft looked up. “You would?”

Greg nodded.

“I…” Mycroft swallowed. “A hug would be very comforting right now.”

Greg nodded again, his heart thumping harder in his chest as she stepped in, opening his arms to allow Mycroft to choose how to do this. He was taller, so his arms ended up on top, Greg hugging his middle and breathing deep. This was so far out of the realm of what he would have thought possible Greg let go of thinking for a while, merely enjoying this contact, the relief of physical comfort after a fairly intense conversation.

When Mycroft eased back, Greg did the same, prepared to break the hug if Mycroft was done. Mycroft’s arms wouldn’t allow him further than their length, and he found himself face to very close face with Mycroft.

If Greg thought a hug was enough to raise his heartrate, watching Mycroft’s determination as he leaned forward to kiss him sent it into the stratosphere. It was as gentle as any he could remember and Greg pressed back, just enough to say ‘I’m into this’ but not enough to be pushy. When Mycroft tilted his head and returned, Greg mimicked him, allowing him to take the lead, astonished this was even happening. He certainly wasn’t going to do anything to put it at risk.

“An unexpected ending to this evening,” Mycroft murmured.

“Definitely,” Greg replied, a little breathless.

“Would you be interested in another evening spent as such?” Mycroft asked.

He was nervous enough to make his question complicated, and Greg took a second to check he understood. Finally, he grinned.

“Since we’re free tomorrow,” he said, “how about we actually cook this time?”

Mycroft smiled. “An excellent plan.”


End file.
